


Searching (unfinished)

by midnighhts



Series: Fictober 2017 [3]
Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood Magic, Drabble, Fictober 2017, Gen, Magical Realism, kinda ? i think ? this au isnt finished yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 09:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12273195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighhts/pseuds/midnighhts
Summary: The cold is biting and sharp. He'll have to be quick to find the thief like this.DAY 3 PROMPT ISMAGIC





	Searching (unfinished)

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a thing i wrot e in a fever dream so it definitely won't make much sense,, but basically i hope u get the general AU. the world is kinda like a mixture of GoT, Stardust and Golden Compass -- the winter of got, the adventure and general magic rules of stardust and the magistrate of golden compass
> 
> THIS ISNT FINISHED YALL  
> i just had to post it bc its october 5 and this is day 3 ndndjsks
> 
> so yeah this is definitely gonna get another chapter and a definite rewrite lmao lmao

The earth is dark and icy, volcano ash dirt hidden under half-melted snow. The season is far too warm for snowfall, and yet there is a blanket of frost as evidence of last night's miracle -- or maybe calling it a curse would be more apt. With the cold months comes snow. With snowfall comes inaccuracies in the maps of the foolish  _ pioneers _ who doubted the power of the earth, as paths are now covered and the roads become lost in the season.

Carlton would have given up on his mission if not for the steady gaze of his companion, Lucinda. Too many times have they had to seek refuge in misshapen caves because of the harshness of the land. Carlton would complain - of course, he will complain - but it will fall on deaf ears. Lucinda will listen as she does, the only thing you can do in the barren northern lands, but she does not have the power to do anything about it, or speak ill. Althea may listen, but there is little evidence that any kind of steed will be able to understand human speech.

Carlton would complain every night as they make camp next to rocks or under trees, “This is why we shouldn't rely on these stupid maps.” He'll point his finger at the pile of parchment, but he won't dare burn them. “We shouldn't listen to the buffoons working for the Queen! We'll be able to find our own way.”

Lucinda can't respond freely to that. Her contract is binding -- but maybe if she's ever discharged from service, her real voice will be heard.

“Calm down, Carlton,” she says, folding her hands over her lap. “This mission will be successful. . .I can feel it.”

Carlton rolls his eyes. Inasmuch as he believes in his own power, he does not believe in hers. There is a difference between the power of his dice and her  _ feelings _ . He does not retort to it, though. It is not his place; he is below her in some ways, and this is one of them. Instead, he shakes his fist up.

“No bones! No crystals! No blood!” he growls, a shout in their tight quarters. “Hell, we do not even know if the thief is in this land anymore!”

“I believe,” Lucinda says, and she means it.

Carlton grumbles, “Of course you do,” before he wraps himself in his bear coat, and goes to sleep.

When they wake, they set off quick. Their only remains in the cave are ashes in a rock circle. They ride quickly, and ride wildly. Althea whinnies, but she jumps over rocks and paths as she's instructed. The days are cool, while the nights freeze over.

They stop at a town.

Carlton nearly starts hacking away at a wooden post. “Hopeless! Hopeless! Hopeless!” His axe is a blur as he continues to swing. “A foolish expedition, indeed!”

Lucinda frowns the way she always does, hands clasped in front of her. She does not stop him, though this would not be the case if they sought shelter in a more populated area. This side of the country is sparsely inhabited; it's a miracle they even found an inn and a store.

Carlton swings around in that moment. His axe soars through the air, nearly catching on Lucinda’s arm -- but it doesn't. He tries to convey that with his eyes. Hopefully she won't slaughter him later.

“Lucinda,” he says, “My sweet, sweet Giver, please.”

Something shifts in her eyes. “You know our orders.”

He throws his axe backwards over his shoulder, and it  _ should _ land on the earth or the timbers. It's the wood.

“Just once,” he tries to reason, but she turns away. She doesn't walk far, but she does walk away.

“Our orders,” she says simply. “You're a mage, and I'm your Giver. You know which one of us will be punished if they find out we're casting magic in these plains.”

He takes her by the shoulders. She goes rigid. He spins her around, and she goes willingly.

“Lucinda,” he says. He almost sounds fond. “If you will not aid me, I will not force you.”

She nods.

“But I will find my own way to the thief. You stay here.”

She does not voice a complaint -- she can't, not with her contract. It's all in her eyes, though, stunning and shining. “While I may not be with you, I grant you fortune, Carlton.”

He sets off that afternoon. He pays the inn fee in advance, and leaves a small sword with Lucinda. She paints a mark on his leather vest -- protection. He rides and rides. The sun sits high until it is night, and even then the sky is alight.

It is not difficult to form runes out of twigs. It may not be his kind of magic, but it something; his Giver is stuck in a town, unwilling to let her blood for magic, and his crystals were taken away before his expedition.

_ The thief is another mage,  _ they said, like it will make a difference to Carlton's success. Any clairvoyants in the court were unable to ascertain his fate, so his confidence is his abilities is not unfounded.

He draws a circle in the ground with one of the sticks, burial earth with rotten leaves. He says his prayer. He kneels just outside of the circle, hands clasped by his chest.

“Give me guidance,” he whispers. If someone were in the forest, they would hear the rest of his supplication, a lengthy prayer for fame, honour and success.

He stands. The twigs suddenly feel heavier in his bag, even heavier than his armour and his coat. He strains against an invisible force as he reaches into his bag, and fishes the sticks from within it. He holds the twigs over the circle, and in a loud cry he shouts his chant. He throws the sticks to the ground with force.

While he has been a mage and a searcher for many years, he still can't help but feel a burning sense of embarrassment for  _ screaming _ words only a handful know. Too much unwanted attention.

The sticks form various patterns on the ground, the ends of the twigs overlapping another to form another rune -- but it's complete bullshit. None of the runes make any sense, no familiar shape discernible in the rubble. He sees The Sun, and a Pine and a Goose overlapping, but the rest make no sense.

Carlton whispers seething curses to himself,  breaks the circle, and continues to ride to the next town. Faith in rune magic. . . yeah, right.

The next town is just as sparse as the last one, colder though there are more horse tracks leading in and out of town. The inn here is also larger, but with less furnished rooms.

The bar is large. Their drinks are cold and dark, served plenty. The bar server explains as she notices his quizzed look.

“Our rivers are bountiful,” she says, and as she twirls and sidesteps around the bar to make his drink, he sees the way her ankles move in the way only dancers have learned.

He left his coat in his room. There's a naked vulnerability to it, but he doubts he would've been let in with such a gigantic piece. Even his armor, plainly plated as it is, even looks grandiose in the small town's pub.

Someone slides up next to him. At first, Carlton doesn't look in fear of a brawl like the last town's. Everyone else is seated far from him, either on separate tables or on the far other end of the bar. The stranger is too close too quickly that Carlton's finger twitches for his knife.

Stranger sits on the left barstool, making it easier for Carlton to charge him. Maybe he could take his glass and smash the stranger on the head with it. Maybe he'll just


End file.
